


Rogue In Purple: Kittle Pitchering

by JoAsakura



Series: The Rogue In Purple [4]
Category: Saints Row
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-28 19:14:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5102519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoAsakura/pseuds/JoAsakura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being something of a prequel to the adventures of one Adam Smith, leader of the Third Street Saints, prior to his rise and fall and rise again. Purportedly from the hand of Pierce Washington, ESQ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rogue In Purple: Past is Prologue

Stilwater, night. The streets of the Row were dark, fitfully dotted by the odd lamp at a vendor's stand or in front of one of the inevitable molly houses, brothels or pubs wedged in between the warehouses and shops long since boarded up from disuse. The lamp lighters who strolled elsewhere, left the ones in the row cold and dark.

Once, the Row had thrived. But now her docks had been supplanted by the newer, greater ones commissioned by the East India Company in the city's south, and only the poor and unscrupulous came now. Even Sheriff Monroe's Runners could scarce be bothered to attend to crimes against the establishments that still struggled to survive.

In a narrow alley, half-protected from the rain, the slalop vendor took a penny from the filthy soldier that loomed above her, and pushed a chipped porcelain bowl towards him, filled with a milky, fragrant brew. She paused to adjust the strip of indigo ribbon waving from the top of the battered copper pot, and tugged her shawl a little closer.

The lamp above her little cart swayed in the chill winter breeze rolling off the bay, and the customers huddled around for shared warmth. A chimneysweep and a baker's girl chatting over a shared cup. A few drunks stumbling out from the pubs eyeing up the frail prostitute, eyes hollow with consumption as she held the bowl a little closer for protection. A molly from Mother Stilwater's across the way, his makeup smeared as he stared at something far away, hidden in the sweet steam.

The soldier stood quite a bit taller than the rest, resolutely ignoring the nearby hawker trying to entice passerby in the gloom with his baubles. His coat and his hands, tattered gloves and all, were a uniformly unpleasant grey-brown, and the rain beaded on the tricorn hat shading his eyes, leaving tracks through the dirt. Under the coat, there was a glimpse of grubby cream, bottle green and once bright saffron-orange lacing, a bit of worn and dirty fur. Powder burns and all, it had been an officer's pelisse at some point, like the tall boots he wore, their leather ravaged by neglect. He sagged a bit as he sipped the slalop, stomach growling for more filling fare and inclined his head at the prostitute, making a space for her beside him and away from the hands of "Gentlemen" unwilling to part with a coin for her attentions.

The mood was mostly relaxed, strangers sharing warmth against the evening cold, when a group of young bravos, clad all in coats or vests of shockingly canary yellow, came stumbling out of one of the pubs. "What the fuck is this, then?" One bellowed, and the attention of the small crowd around the cart was drawn to a nearby wall. Tatters of faded yellow fabric had been splashed with blue, and the youths were glaring at something scratched deep into the wall. "Those fat culls in the Rollers, those posh little pricks think they can come into our streets?" One said, tearing off the fabric with a snarl.

The cart clattered as the old woman nearly overturned her pot trying to get the indigo ribbon off and switch it for a scrap of evening primrose silk no doubt salvaged from some ruined dress. The rest of the customers began to back away, even the drunks, as another yellow-clad fellow turned to them. "And you, hag! I saw that ribbon you flew just now! What do you think, flying the Rollers colours in our neighbourhood??"

"I was to understand..." She began in a quavering voice, cut off as another swaggering group all in indigo and faded saxon blue, appeared out of the rising fog. 

"This is our turf now, lads." One said. "Go back to Sunnyvale where you belong."

The whole scene immediately erupted into violence and foul language, the customers scattering as pistols and swords alike were drawn. One bad shot pinged against the nearby bricks and the young molly dropped his bowl with a loud crash as he scrambled away. 

The old woman cowered, but the soldier, resplendent in his disgusting greatcoat, simply took another loud slurp of his drink. "Might I have a bit more, madam?" He said in a low, gravelly voice, right before two struggling foes crashed into her cart, toppling the whole of it.

The old woman screamed and ran, and the soldier simply sighed, stepping around the two youths wrestling on the filthy cobbles. He was carefully setting up the pot to pour out more, then, when a few phaetons, gleaming red in the spotty light, came clattering out of the gloom, a team of bay and black horses at their heads. They, and the fine steeds that accompanied them, were handled by youths in turkey red and iron grey, their faces covered in brick-hued scarves. The driver of one shouted an obscenity as another pulled out his rifle - one that had seen action on the continent, the soldier surmised - and took aim.

The aim was bad, and the ball carved a gash through the soldiers hat, knocking him over. The pot upended, tangled in his long legs, and the bowl shattered on the stones, the sweet brew puddling into the filthy water and seeping into his dirty trousers. "That. Was. My. Dinner." The soldier growled, grabbing the nearest bravo and smashing his face into the cobblestones with a sickening, wet crack.

It was madness, more in red and yellow and blue began to appear, bullets and steel flashing, and in the centre of the storm, one dirty, ragged crow, fighting them all. He used the arm of one man in blue to beat one in red, took the knife from one in red to bury in the throat of one in yellow, as he snapped his boot into the face of yet another in blue, until the impact of a heavy stone against his skull sent him staggering, vision swimming and sparking. 

He stumbled against the stones, blood filling his mouth as a boot slammed into his midsection. Then there was a shout, followed by gunfire. "RUNNERS! MONROE'S RUNNERS ARE COMING!" and the gangs scattered. 

He coughed out a bit of blood and vomit as a pair of strong hands gripped his arms. "There son, I saw you acquit yourself well on the field of battle just now, against those sons of bitches." The voice, and the hands helped him to sit up and the soldier squinted with swimming vision at the dark, older man before him, his clothes fifteen years out of date but well-cut. A younger, blond sort, in plain workman's garb, fidgeted. Both of them wore an outrageous scarf of purple at their throats.

"Master Little, this is no time to be givin' yer recruitin' speech." He said around the toothpick in his mouth, gun still smoking. "Monroe's boys'll be here quicker than we'd like fer once."

"Hush, Troy. We need all the help we can get." Master Little said. "The Row is drowning in problems and we need to save it." He added, gently prodding the swollen egg on the soldier's head. "You'll be fine, I think. You look to have a hard head. Come to the old church down the lane should you want to be part of the solution."

The soldier blinked owlishly at them, reaching around for his ruined hat. "I've been part of a solution, good sir. I didn't care much for it." He rumbled, setting the sodden felt back on his head. There was a beat of silence, and then his stomach squealed like a pig.

"Then come for a hot meal and a bath. You could use both, and I could use you." Master Little said as he straightened up. "I'll see you there."


	2. A brush with the Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what a man must do for some supper.

The church had been built in Stilwater's brighter days, before the factories had begun to boom in Steelport and the old docks had drowned in the earthquake.

The stained glass windows were broken and the statues of the saints were defaced to a one. And the only services held there now were a sea of young toughs in damson and aubergine watching Master Julius Little rain hellfire and damnation from the ruined pulpit.

He'd changed from his outdated frock coat to a quilted banyan of violet brocade, breath steaming in the cold air as he paced. Beside him, the man named Troy glowered at the scene. The soldier shifted - a column of filthy darkness in a sea of purple.

"You all know what we have to do." He shouted. "It doesn't matter what colours they fly - the Rollers blue, the Vice Kings in yellow or those Spaniards in red. They all act as if they own this city and now is our time, the time we take her back and make her safe and proud again!"

The crowd erupted into roars, and the soldier tugged his coat a little closer. As one cheer faded, in the brief quiet, there was a loud squeal of a hungry stomach. In the crowd, one man turned slowly. He was a dandy, dark hair curled in the finest fashion, his pale lilac cravat held with a gold and amethyst pin, and his mulberry wool coatlette was old but well-mended and recut to look new. He was stocky and broad, and his accent marked his birth someplace far from the crumbling docks of Stilwater.

He narrowed dark eyes at the soldier and folded his muscled arms. "And who, pray tell, the fuck is this? Are you recruiting from the sewers now, Julius?"

"He's a new asset, Mister Gat. As right an abram cove as you or Troy or Dexter." Little said.

"If he wants to ride with the Saints, Master Little, he needs to take his knocks in his canonisation." Gat scowled harder.

"Gat's right." Troy said from Little's side. "We all had to face those same trials."

"Such as it is, then. Our new friend will face the trials of Sainthood." Little made a broad gesture.

"I was promised food. And a bath." The soldier said, eyes glittering green beneath his tricorn. "A thrashing was not amongst the discussed amusements of my visit."

"A beating can only make you smell better." Gat said. "Or are you but a chicken-hearted hector, you great stupid jack'o'legs?"

"And you're fat as a hen in the forehead, you bandy-legged runt." The soldier growled, as the young bravos in their purple circled him. "What are the terms of this trial, anyways? How many of you do I have to kill for a fucking pie?"

"No killing. You simply endure as each of these young men takes a turn upon you." Little shrugged. "You can, of course hit back."

The soldier removed his hat and threw it at Gat. "Hold my hat, good son." He smirked, greasy raven-purple hair falling in lank locks across his face. He would have been handsome if not for the ill-kept beard and the dirt. "I'll need it for later."

"The only thing you'll need for later is a bowl of broth to sip from your toothless yap." Gat leaned against a noseless statue. He twirled the hat distastefully in his hands as the soldier spun. A number of toughs descended on him as one, burying him in a sea of purple and flesh, and Gat winced, just a little. Until the mound heaved upwards, and soldier took one fellow by the throat and used him to clear a path of the others.

The shouts rose and faded as noses broke and limbs twisted and it wasn't long before there was a pile of groaning flesh strewn across the yard. The lanky soldier stood, steaming like a horse run too hard in the cold, at their centre as he wiped a bit of blood from his nose. "You claim to have a war to fight, but I swear, if any more of you want a go, I'm going to eat the ear off the next bastard that takes a swing at me." 

"He's beaten your time, Mister Gat." said a thin, dark man in a topper banded in shockingly puce silk to match his vest. He snapped his pocket watch closed and extended a hand. "I'm Dex." He added by way of introduction as the soldier took back his hat. "And hardly a bruise on you, I see, Mister...?"

"Spencer Churchill." The soldier gave him a brisk shake. "It's as good a name as any."

"I still did it with greater flair." Gat snorted. "And *you* still smell like a pigsty in the summer."

"I'll endeavour to not offend your delicate sensibilities any further, Mister Gat, so please, direct me to a bath and some food, and I'll be happy to take my fill of both and then be on my way." The man calling himself Churchill said with a scowl.

"No such thing, queer cove. You're in the purple now." Troy chewed on his toothpick. "Or you will be before the end of the day."

"Bloody fucking hell." Churchill groaned as he followed Gat down the corridor. "I just wanted some fucking pie."

"There's a pump and a tub. If you ask nicely, someone may even start a fire so you don't freeze to death in the process." Gat snorted as Churchill began to peel out of his dirty clothes. The greatcoat was joined on the floor by the filthy cream and green officer's coat and worn mouse-grey blouse. "You're quite the rum duke for a grubby bunter."He added as the other's body revealed. He nudged the pelisse with his toe, clearly examining the gilt stag fixed to the collar.

"You're an arsehole." Churchill said as he dumped water on his head. "Gat, huh?"

"I hail from Choson originally. Corea, they'd call it here. A pirate, once, a lifetime ago, and now a gangster. And more than enough to ruin many a fool's day." The man in purple said with a shrug. "But then what of you, some fat cull's pretty bastard got from some sad cattle he hauled from China Proper? I doubt Churchill's your name at all." Gat watched him with no great interest, snow beginning to fall softly from a hole in the ceiling as the lamps flickered in the cold breeze.

"You talk exceedingly much, Mister Gat. But of course, I'm only what you see, a dirty bunter begging for a piece of some pie." Churchill sank into the tub with a shudder. "Much as you are, I imagine."

"Your mouth is the worst part of you at all." Gat growled. "Let us hope we're both full of surprises, if Julius' enterprise is going to succeed." he said, turning on his heel. "I'll see that Troy brings you some cleaner rags to wear to supper."


	3. The Hunting Dog's Wages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A meal finally consumed, a situation considered

"Your Mister Gat is quite the rusty guts." Churchill said as he dragged the towel across his skin. "But he provided me with soap that cost more than i've seen in an age." He picked up the sliver of translucent amber soap and waved it at Troy. The room was barely warmed by the fireplace, but he didn't seem to mind as the snow fell harder outside. As for himself, Troy had changed his own plain garb for a finer coat in iron grey lined with a mulberry silk. His trousers were a lighter colder grey, much like the light streaming into the room.

It had taken a great deal of scrubbing, but the dirt was gone and his newly clean hair - soaped then rinsed with rum - had a peculiar dark iridescence in the warm light of the lamp. It was far more purple than black, with the faintest spark of blue-green in the highlights, like a marten's wing. "I'm honestly not sure what to make of it." He said, flashing Troy sharp, white teeth.

"Our Johnny's ways are surly, but he takes hygiene very seriously." Troy laughed and set down a bundle of cloth nearby as one of the youths that Churchill had beaten senseless earlier carried in a tray before scuttling off. "You missed supper, but I was able to scare up some onion soup and a bit of stewed cheese and sippets from the kitchen. Master Little likes to see his soldiers well cared for." He patted the clothes with a faint scowl. "You're a good bit taller and long in the leg than most, so I'm not sure if any of this'll fit you proper, but.."

"I'm caught in a strange place." Churchill padded over to him, unselfconscious in his nudity as the chill raised gooseflesh across his gilded skin. "I feel like i've swallowed the king's shilling, but to be clean and fed..." He lifted the bowl to his lips, soup beading in his unkempt beard as he slurped loudly. "God's blood, that's the finest thing I've had in forever." He belched, savouring the meaty broth on the repeat. But his sharp grin faded quickly as the met Troy's eyes.

"You don't need to stay." Troy said with a grim look. "You can eat and dress, and slip away. I'll make sure they don't come after you. I won't let a man be pressganged into a war that's clearly not his."

Churchill cocked his head, cheeks pouched like a great squirrel's with cheese and toast. "I appreciate the thought." He said, chewing. "But in truth, I've nowhere to go, no prospects at hand, and war is one of the few occupations I fare well at."

"Then know that Dex's people are fomenting what may be a riot between the other groups laying claim to the Row. When they face each other, Julius intends that we make an appearance as well and use that violence against them all. And he intends to bring you along to see how you perform."

"Then I will endeavour to not disappoint." Churchill scratched his ratty beard as he pawed through the clothing, eyeing up a pair of worn nankeen pantaloons. "As I said, i've no other prospects currently beyond starving to death in the snow. This is preferable."

"You keep fidgeting with that growth on your face." Troy shook his head, watching the other man dress in the awkward clothes. The nankeen was too short for his legs but too wide in the hips, the sleeves on the faded lilac shirt strained across his shoulders. "Do you need a hand with a shave?"

"I couldn't impose." Churchill blinked, bright eyes catching the light for a moment as a cat's might. Troy shivered despite himself. "You've done far too much for me already. This stop-hole abbey's a seaside resort as far as I'm concerned."

"Nonsense." Troy recomposed himself, and examined the shaving supplies Gat had left on the sideboard. "I'm doing it so i don't have to listen to Gat whine about your hideous whiskers. My father was a barber. I picked up a few tricks."

"Well then. If you're going to cut my throat with that razor, at least i'll die full and fresh." Churchill joked, setting himself on a stool. He fell silent while Troy lathered the shaving soap, eyes closing as the blade scraped along his chin. "You've made a fan of me, sir." He said hoarsely. "You've brought me food and clothing and now this. Like a stray dog fed scraps, I'd come begging for more, so I'm pressed to think of the ways I could repay you. A merry-begotten scoundrel such as myself has his ways, you know."

"Mister Churchill, are you... flirting with me?" Troy asked. He cleaned the last of the cream from Churchill's chin and paused, letting the edge of the flannel run across the newly-revealed mole on the man's upper lip.

"Depends, is it working?" He cracked open on eye to fix a bright green gaze on Troy.

"Hardly. You're not half as charming as you think yourself to be." Troy laughed, then sobered. "Are you sure you want to fight a war that isn't yours?" He bent to examine the dirty pelisse, the cream and green and orange somehow shocking in the grey room. "You can still run. I will ensure your safety in this matter."

"That's the only war my kind ever gets to see, Mister Bradshaw." Churchill took the jacket from him and pried off the gilt stag on the collar, before letting it fall. "Fighting for other people's causes." He held the ornament between his thumb and forefinger before fixing it on the tall collar of his ill-fitting shirt. "A reminder of that and it's price, one that I find myself unable to avoid."

"Then I suppose we'll see if this stray dog was worth the effort to clean and feed." Troy said with a sardonic smile that never reached his eyes. "Get some rest, we'll be out upon dawn."

Churchill watched him go as he finished dressing, before finding his way to the coarse barracks of straw mattresses where the Saints took their rest. Some of them eyed him warily, and he bowed, his battered boots scraping on the floor. "Blood in, blood out my hearties." He said. "I will not betray you in a fight." He said, hopefully, as he folded his dirty greatcoat at the foot of one. "I don't bite."

There was a ripple of laughter, and Churchill shivered, feeling eyes on his back. From the gallery of the church above, he saw Master Little, staring and then passing into the shadows. But then the moment was gone, drowned out by the promise of a bed and some slowly-warming company.

He hadn't realised he'd fallen asleep until he snapped awake with a start, Troy's hands fisted in his newish waistcoat, and his own balled into a fist ready to break an attacker's nose. "Fuck, Mister Bradshaw. I could've killed you." He rasped.

It was still dark and but some of the saints were rousing, splashing water on their faces and gathering their kit. "It's time that some of us rode out against the little cotillion Dex has put together." Troy said, lightly slapping Churchill in the face. "You'll be with Julius and myself."

"Do I get a weapon?" Churchill dragged himself upright, then shook out his greatcoat.

"There's a sword and gun waiting for you." Troy made a face at the still-dirty coat. "And a visit from a laundress afterwards for that thing."

"I thought you were less delicate than Mister Gat." Churchill followed him in long strides to the churchyard, where one of the soldiers - a girl in purple-stained rags- handed him a battered cavalry sabre and musket. He twirled the first- three feet of heavy steel- with a practiced hand before putting on the baldric, then sighted along the barrel of the gun. "This is a piece of shite."

"It's all we've got at the moment. I'll put you to some activities to earn coin, and you can find yourself better." Julius stepped out of the church, pulling his aubergine cloak closer against the cold. "I've sent Gat on another mission today, son, so I expect you to acquit yourself well."

Churchill bowed a bit to the older man. "I will not fail you, as you've paid my fee in food and shelter, Master Little."

"Then let us show these foul badgers that the Row belongs to the purple! That it belongs to the SAINTS!" Julius shouted to the assemblage gathered in the dark and the cold. "Let us stain the snow with their blood as a warning to those who would take our homes from us!"

The Saints cheered and Churchill could only wonder why his new friend Troy looked so concerned.

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little bit of adaptation of Saints Row 1 and 2 as i try to push ahead with Rogue In Purple


End file.
